Silence, the real killer
by Unlabelled
Summary: A oneshot where Carlisle struggles a little with depression and has problems asking for help. Also I suppose vampires have slightly more human qualities here than in the film.


**My writing sucks. The idea is dumb. My vampires are more human than the ones in Twilight. There, I beat you to it :)**

 **The idea behind this is quite personal for me and writing this made me feel a bit better, and I in no way claim it to be any good. If you've found yourself in here, I applaud you for making it this far :)**

Carlisle didn't like the rain. Not in the slightest. Loathed it even. In a way standing in the down pour served as a form of self-punishment. He enjoyed that.

Whether he stood there for hours of merely minutes he did not know. He didn't care, either. It was unimportant. Glancing up at the sky provided no answers or reassurance, just as dark and empty as he felt. Time grinded to a halt and he found himself holding his breath, waiting for something that could never come.

"Dr Cullen? Are you alright?" Jenny – one of the nurses on his shift - called, frowning as she watched the liquid drip from his jacket, too water-logged to absorb any more. Her confusion grew as her co-worker didn't physically react, stock still and watching the sky.

Was he alright? He didn't know. He must be. Because he had to be alright, he wasn't allowed to be anything else.

"Fine." The answer was automatic.

She barely heard him over the river in the storm water drains as she turned back inside, cringing as the cold air bit into her skin, the darkness seeming to intensify the sting.

Carlisle slowly approached his car, weary of it as a beast with a vengeance, his keys being the weapon. He ignored the water soaking into the upholstery as he sat, wincing at the silence instead. It was quiet. Too quiet. The interior of the vehicle creating a bubble, a layer between him and real life. Time alone with his thoughts like this was a luxury he did not want.

His destination became a figure rather than a place, arriving as his pedometer screamed 'too fast'. He jerked the wheel, purposefully too sharp, the vehicle buckling against the road and plummeting the drop into the forest below.

The concussion wasn't enough. He was too numb to feel his head hit the steering wheel on impact, only vaguely aware of the blood running down his cheek, the white collar of his shirt staining red. He needed more of a burn. Just to prove that he could be okay. That he was okay.

Walking was an issue. The ground tilted under his shoes, red spotting his path as he stumbled through the trees, roots tripping him every few seconds. Slow exhaustion rendered him unable to lift his feet high enough to avoid becoming tangled in nature. Strange seeming he was so unnatural. But Carlisle was determined he wouldn't fail at this too. Because he was okay. He was always okay.

One hundred miles passed, then two hundred, then another sharp drop into icy waters. So frozen and almost blinded by wind as he fell, he was unaware of what awaited him at the end of the drop. Despite the temperature of his skin, the razored edges at the bottom of the cliff proved sharp enough to elicit a response from him, although nothing more than a small gasp. And more blood.

Just as he struggled to his feet, the swell of the ocean threw him down again, forcing his head under the surface and strangling water down his throat.

Panic. Carlisle didn't want to die. He didn't want to be like the patient he'd lost. He didn't want his family to cry like hers did, his wife to be as distraught as her husband had been. But it was too late for regrets. Already he'd lost strength, salty liquid weighing down his lungs and too much ingested in his stomach.

Fear became lost on Carlisle; he just wanted to sleep now. The thoughts from moments before vanished into unimportance. Yet, as quickly as he had fallen, he was pulled from the water. And then he was being forced onto his hands and knees, a finger shoved down his throat, forcing him to bring up the water he'd consumed. Spluttering and coughing for what seemed like an eternity, he couldn't find the courage to glance up at whoever had dragged him out.

Eleazar was numb as he watched the boy below the surface, realisation seeping under his skin like the water had soaked into his clothing. He'd jumped. He wanted this. But Eleazar couldn't watch his friend destroy himself. Not in this way.

He jumped down the bank, his shoes sliding on the rocks as he landed. Snatching at the back of his jacket, his fingertips just managing to catch hold. Dragging his limp body to the surface, Eleazar cringed as he didn't so much as take a breath.

"Eleazar!" Garrett, biting his lip to strangle the need to cry, reached down, easily pulling him up onto the bank while Eleazar watched on anxiously. "Come on, Carlisle…"

It was a relief to everyone when Carlisle started to vomit, his body rejected everything he'd swallowed. "You're okay now, love," Carmen tried to assure him, but his ears rang so loudly he couldn't hear. The only thing he was aware of was how badly his head hurt, swimming with the pressure that throwing up created on his body.

Shivering but dry a few hours later, Carlisle felt nothing but empty and oddly anxious, watching the faces of the Denali coven with wide eyes as though they were strangers. Tanya stood in front of him, arms folded and her lips thinned into a line as she took in his appearance. "What are you doing, Carlisle? You have a coven. A family. A mate."

The thought of Esme suffering didn't help his situation any and he dropped his gaze to the floor, guilt starting to ebb in. "I love them…" His voice seemed too loud in his own ears, causing him to wince, a movement that was caught by everyone in the room.

"Carlisle…" Carmen stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged it off, suddenly allergic to touch. "I'm fine." He hated that word. Fine. It didn't mean anything. It was just an excuse. But he couldn't offer any other response.

"Fine isn't drowning yourself. Carlisle," Tanya sighed, running her hand over her face. "You know we love you, just- please?"

"I'm okay…" But he wasn't. Carlisle was petrified, physically shaking and struggling to hide it. He wanted to tell them. He really did. But 'help me' caught in his throat and he was never able to cough it up.

"What do we do now, then?"

He risked a glance up, regretting it immediately; the disappointment on their faces was a little too much to bear. Now even the lie wouldn't come out, so he didn't speak at all, keeping his head down and willing himself to be away from them.

"Answer me, Carlisle. Am I supposed to let you walk out of here in this state?"

Unsure how to respond, he froze. Neither answer was the one she was looking for.

Having been alive long enough to recognise submission when she saw it, Tanya quietly sent the others from the room, sitting on the table in front of Carlisle so they were less than a foot apart. "You need to tell me what is wrong, or I can't help you."

He tried to steady himself but the room was blurred slightly, under a haze of confusion and tears. The more he thought about it, the harder it became for him to remember was exactly _was_ so wrong. "…I'm not…I'm not sure…" he admitted, holding his breath as he waited for her irritated response. "…I…lost a patient…and then…everything broke…" Carlisle swallowed thickly, trying to force away the lump in his throat; it was _him_ that was broken.

Tanya wasn't stupid. She knew that wasn't the source of the problem; he'd been a doctor for years and had never been taken down by a death in this way. No. That wasn't it at all. "And?"

"…And I'm not…okay…" It wasn't as horrible as he'd thought. No alarms went off. No one screamed. Tanya didn't flinch. And he felt a little better, a little less crushed by everything. "…I'm not okay…"

She smiled and he almost managed to mimic the gesture; it felt good. He wasn't choked anymore. He could breathe. And he could speak.

And the word 'fine' was about to banished from his vocabulary for the rest of eternity.


End file.
